© 2010 Joanne Shwed

 CoastViews magazine article

What did this chubby Bronx Jew know about a 12-year-old Latin lover?

The first day José arrived from the Dominican Republic, he set his eyes on me. He strutted into my junior high school history class about a month after the term started, and I knew then that my life would be changed forever.

José was different and gorgeous, with his gold-colored jacket, kinky hair and small, solid body. I watched him move through the room; his mannerisms were sensual and mature. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him and he caught me looking several times.

He soon became our class president and was a straight-A student. He was quite popular and greatly admired.

When we passed each other in the hallway, his bold stares made me nervous. When he tried to talk to me, I blushed and dodged. He passed notes to me in class — some in English, some in Spanish — always accompanied by a handsome wink and a naughty smile.

One day, on the way home from school, my friends and I gathered at our neighborhood candy store and ordered our usual chocolate egg creams made of milk, chocolate syrup, and seltzer. The jukebox was playing Jay and the Americans’ “Come a Little Bit Closer.” I postponed the eventual walk home, wondering if I would see José.

The door opened and I looked up. José sauntered in and our eyes met. He glided toward me and mouthed these words: Come a little bit closer, I’m all alone, and the night is so long. I ran out of the store, short of breath and dizzy with excitement. I heard his laughter’s playful echo as I looked over my shoulder, but he didn’t follow.

Later that year, José convinced me to “go steady.” My parents would never accept this union at such a young age, so it was a secret known only to our friends. We strolled through the school hallways, hand in hand. I felt my classmates’ stares and enjoyed every minute of my popularity and their envy.

One time, I wore a red, buttoned-down dress to our friend’s party and José tried to undo those little buttons, one by one, starting from the bottom. I took his hands away, again and again, and nervously joked about it.

José was a terrific dancer and we won several dance contests. At one event, a slow song came on and I became light-headed because I knew what was going to happen: He held me tightly around my waist, bumping and grinding our small bodies together. I tried to make sense of my grown-up feelings as I cautiously glanced at the other dancers, wondering if anyone saw what we were doing — or knew what I was feeling.

Then, during a school assembly, José didn’t sit next to me. I scanned the room, searching for him among the sea of young faces, and spotted him a few rows down. He was sitting beside a beautiful, slim, blond girl. She smiled at him in a way that I hadn’t dared. They spoke the same language. She was not nervous.

I was history.